


Awakening

by juurensha



Series: Rogue Squad Stories [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Scarif, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Battle of Scarif, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Team Feels, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juurensha/pseuds/juurensha
Summary: Cassian calls it a reprogramming, but K-2SO thinks of it more as an unshackling.





	Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I loved K-2SO and his relationship with Cassian, so to wrap up all my feelings about Rogue One, I decided to focus on them. Enjoy!

The first time he woke up after he had been captured, a human had a screwdriver in his head. It took a few miliseconds to run facial recognition and realize that this was the rebel who had disabled him in the first place, and he reached back and managed to grab the rebel but then the rebel scrabbled at a switch and—

The second time he woke up after he had been captured was a few hours after the previous attempt, and the human (the same one as before, and this time his facial recognition program pulls up an Imperial file on known Rebel spy Willix, Aach, Joreth Sward, Cassian Andor) was still at work on his head. Unlike like last time, his arm had been detached, so this time he tried to headbutt the rebel, but the rebel slammed his head down and—

The third time he woke up after he had been captured, the human (Cassian Andor, his memory prompted him although sadly it seemed that he was cut off from broadcasting _anything_ ) was dozing on a bench. His arm was reattached, and he longed to swat the annoying human, but the circuits in his arm seemed to have been reversed so he couldn’t move it.

Organics. Always hitting random circuits during repair jobs. He didn’t even see why they were permitted to work on droids—

What was this?

This buzz of irritating thoughts, like a swarm of gnats crowding his brain.

“What have you done to me?” he demanded at the human.

The human jerked awake and stared at him, “You’re awake,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“ _Obviously,_ ” he intoned before shaking his head (had his _voice_ ever sounded like that before?), “What did you _do?”_

The man rubbed the back of his head and squinted at him, “I was _trying_ to reprogram you to not kill me.”

“If that’s all you wanted to do, you could have just smashed my head with a rock and have been done with it,” he snapped, examining the circuit in his arm to try and distract himself from the—the _annoyance_ that was like a constant beat in his head (when had he _ever_ needed a distraction?), “What did you _do?”_

The man sighed, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair, “And maybe I was trying to retask you, but—”

“To _what_? Are you even an engineer?” he snapped, trying to twist his leg up to where the joint of his arm was (it was a sad miserable failure)

“I am many things,” the man shrugged, “And I was mainly just trying to disable your Imperial security programs.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously, already busily combing through the files in his head.

It was true that it seemed—freer. Less regimented somehow. His thoughts could flow and diverge—but they could also accumulate annoyingly and distract, and he was 89% sure that he did not like that.

(But hold on—

What was this thought of _like_ or _dislike?_

There was only ever the task at hand, or getting sent to yet another technician to sort out the snare in his programming.

And now when he accessed the files on those trips—

There was a definite sense of distaste about those memories now.

But was that from him or the human?

Surely the human could not be this thorough, and he does vaguely remember a sense of hesitance in visiting the technicians before.)

“It would be—useful to have an Imperial service droid around,” the man said carefully, moving a bit closer.

He tilted his head (it felt right), “If all you wanted were Imperial plans, you could have downloaded them already,” he said, “What—do you want me to follow you around like some sort of _protocol_ droid?”

(There are always protocol droids scuttling about after important people who have deigned to drop in at a base. They reminded him a bit of bugs now that he thinks about it some more.)

“More like a spy or a partner,” the human replied, crossing his arms.

“Me? Partner with _you_?” he snorted (he had no idea he could even make that noise. He likes it, and he makes a note to do it again), “Why shouldn’t I just turn you in or go off on my own?”

“You could, but then what?” the human asked, “Go back to the Imps to get wiped again?”

(That does not sound appealing. Even though these…for lack of a better word, he supposes he will have to go with _emotions,_ are surprising they are not—unpleasant.

He likes the way they color a world that was previously linear. Now it’s like there are shades and facets that he has never considered before.

If he went back, he would go back to what he was, and that seems so _boring_ right now.)

“And if you go off on your own, where would you go?” the human continued, “Not many places for an ex-Imperial droid.”

(And that is true; even if he wanders off to enjoy his newfound freedom, he’d have to find a new chasis in order to enjoy it fully and avoid being shot or captured.

But he likes his chasis; it is appealing to loom over everyone and everything.)

“You may have a point,” he grudgingly concedes, kicking a bit at the dirt he was sitting in, “But what exactly do you want me to _do?”_

The human smiles, “I assume you know who I am?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” he replies, attempting to gesture at his head except his arms are still disabled so all he can do is lurch a bit, “Even if this kidnapping wasn’t enough of an indication, you’re a known rebel, Willix, Aach, Joreth Sward, Cassian Andor.”

The human’s smile got wider, “Call me Cassian.”

He sets a mental flag to do no such thing, “Whatever, just fix my arm,” he said, nodding at the stationary limb.

And he doesn’t call the human anything other than “You” or “Rebel Captain” or “Fuuuulcruuum,” when he realizes it annoys the human (sadly he only finds out ten missions in, and he can only use that name when they are in rebel bases, because you never know who is listening) despite fire-fights (being a spy is a surprising jolt of energy after being a glorified guard for so long), noisy rebel centers (the look on the rebels’ faces the first time he walked in had been well worth the subsequent ducking behind crates to get away from friendly fire), or the human’s sighs and annoyance (or maybe a little bit because).

The human muses out loud if something is wrong with his memory, and he scoffs and points out that unlike some organics, he _always_ remembers important things.

And he continues this way, running, shooting (sadly only once before the human confiscates the gun, citing too much unholy glee has to be bad for his circuits), hitting, and squabbling with the human, until he gets shot in the head, and he wakes up for the fourth time to see Cassian’s worried face hovering over him.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Cassian asks, backing up to let him sit up, “I fixed you up the best I could—K, you know who I am?”

“Cassian,” he replies, his optics whirring to refocus, “Cassian Andor.”

“Okay, do you remember how you got here?” Cassian asks, brow still furrowed.

“Obviously, you got me shot. And there’s a 96% chance that you managed to get injured as well,” he replied, touching his head lightly (smooth metal; Cassian must have managed to get another unit’s head for him

That was kind of nice.

The old head had been getting pitted after all.)

Cassian’s brow cleared, and he grinned, “You’re still you!” relief evident in his voice.

He doesn’t have eyes to roll, but he tries anyway even though the limited range of mobility of his optics doesn’t give off the full effect, “I back myself up well, of course I’m still me. You on the other hand, look like me the third time we met,” he replied, gesturing at Cassian’s arm in a sling.

Cassian continues to smile, “Good to see you too.”

“Without me, you’ll soon be riddled with holes,” he says, standing up, “So delicate, you organics.”

“I managed without you for a while,” Cassian points out mildly.

“Badly,” he stated disdainfully, “Do you remember that time you came back from Corellia? How many bones had you broken again?”

(Cassian had spent about a week in a bacta tank that time. There had been nothing for him to do besides walk around the rebel base, check Cassian’s tank, and bicker with astromech droids.

The main downside to Cassian’s reprogramming of him was that now he knew what sheer _boredom_ was.)

Cassian waved a hand in front of him, “I’ve had worse before.”

“Not while I’m around,” he said, moving his arm to make sure that it had the proper range of motion.

(Despite a poor beginning, he has been forced to work with groups of humans and has found Cassian to be least annoying of the bunch.

He’s quiet for the most part, not chattering away like some of the rebel humans, or even some of the more annoying rebel droids. He let K2 pilot the ship once he figured out that K2 wasn’t about to crash them. He looks out for K2, handing him oil and repair parts and always looking for him during a firefight.

If Cassian gets too grievously injured, he’ll get stuck with one of the other rebels, and that will not do.

It’s slightly annoying to have preferences now, but on the other hand, he supposes that it is also better this way. At least now, no one dares to use him as a coat rack or makes him do guard duty without his say-so.)

Cassian paused and looked at him, “…thanks. I think,” he said slowly.

“What for?” he asked, peering at Cassian.

Cassian’s mouth quirked into a small smile, “Nothing, let’s get moving. Senator Mon Mothma wishes to speak with us.”

After that, Cassian constantly asks him every day whether or not he has backed up his files, until he finally just gave Cassian a synched drive to his backups.

“Now will you stop nagging?” he snapped, dropping the drive into Cassian’s hand.

Cassian glanced at the drive and then at him, “Thank you,” he said, closing his fingers tightly around the drive.

He waved him off, “It was that or else there was an 87% chance and rising that I was going to throw you out of the shuttle.”

Cassian shook his head with a grin on his face, “But then how would you convince them that you aren’t an Imperial droid?”

“With my sparkling wit,” he replied deadpan, turning to head back to the latest Rebel ship (he had hopes that this one would be less held together with hope and spit and more with actual bolts).

Cassian nodded, “If they didn’t shoot you on sight that would probably work. Anyone who talked to you long enough would know you’re your own droid.”

(He has heard humans talk about warm and fuzzy feelings before and not understood it.

He might have something of an inkling now, although he buries the file behind walls of encryption.)

There’s another mission after that, and then another and another and another, and he meticulously logs each of them, along with if Cassian got injured and the type of silence that fills the ship after some of those missions.

(Sometimes he feels like Cassian needs more friends. Organic friends.

After all, he doesn’t really understand the quirks of organics, even one that he has spent as much time with as Cassian. He tries to prompt Cassian to talk sometimes, since that was the advice he had begrudgingly lowered himself to ask of a protocol droid, but even with his reprogramming, he was never built to give much in the way of meaningful emotional support.

The med droid that he had talked to didn’t have much in the way of pharmaceutical solutions since the rebel’s medical supplies consist mostly of bacta gel packs and stims, and Cassian refuses to talk to a med droid, citing that he can just keep talking to K.

He could say that makes him happy, but he won’t because what kind of thought is that?)

He never gets used to how easily organics get injured. Or to be more precise, how easily Cassian can come to harm since he has known from his earliest builds how easily organics bleed out and die.

Cassian is usually good about making sure they have all the supplies they need, but he always checks anyway for bacta gel packs, disinfectant, gauze, and all those other emergency medical supplies organics need to keep running. True, it really should be a medical droid’s job, but sadly, Cassian doesn’t have a backup drive stored somewhere safe.

(He has considered building one for him, but that wouldn’t be the same at all.)

Sometimes the missions are alright, like the one in Aleen where all their targets had been apparently taken out by a blind monk before they ever got there (more poison for some other assassination attempt he supposed), but after a particularly bad mission on Thustra where multiple informants and potential rebel recruits were executed (and some by their own hand), he asks Cassian why he stays in the Rebel Alliance.

Cassian looks at him wide-eyed, pausing from the frantic scrubbing of his hands, “…we’re doing good here,” he says finally, not looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“I’m not sure it’s doing you much good,” he points out.

Cassian shook his head sharply and returned to trying to pick the dried blood out from underneath his fingernails, “I have been in the Rebellion so long—I can’t just walk away from all of that.”

“Why not? I was an Imperial droid for a long time, and I have obviously adapted,” he said, gesturing around.

“I couldn’t just—I can’t live in the world where the Empire wins,” Cassian said, flinging away the rag he was trying to dry his shaking hands with, “I just can’t. And I can’t leave until the day we win.”

“That day doesn’t look so close,” he states.

Cassian lets out a tired sigh, “And yet we still hold on to the hope that it’s getting nearer.”

He doesn’t try asking again, because he can tell from the set of Cassian’s jaw and the fierce look in his eyes that this is and probably always has been a cause he is willing to die for.

(It’s not his though. Cassian is the only thing that holds him here, otherwise he’d leave but probably not before attempting to tie Davitis Draven’s arms behind his head.

He does not like that man. He doesn’t believe he cares for any of them the way a leader should. Sometimes he feels like Draven is sizing them all up like the Imperial inspectors used to dole out guard patrols, like pieces on a chess board.

And he would usually applaud that view since sometimes organic sentimentality is really quite dull, but not when it affects Cassian.

Cassian isn’t replaceable.)

They have encountered more than one unwilling recruit, but he believes Jyn Erso takes the cake.

(Weren’t people supposed to be happy being rescued?

Also he can’t believe _she_ gets a blaster.)

There’s not much time to process their sullen new addition or Cassian’s inexplicable fondness for her before they run into Stormtroopers, and then he’s rescuing them plus the defector, some kind of monk, and a walking armory from an exploding planet.

And then they have to go to some planet with far too much rain and jagged rocks, with the (other) Imperial defector yelling frantic directions at him, and then their ship still ends up exploding (although the Imperial one they took was nicely familiar in some ways. All the ports lined up with him perfectly).

He tries telling Cassian that Jyn Erso must be bad luck since they have encountered exploding carts, ships, and planets since meeting her (not to mention stolen speeches, because come on, he would recognize that line about rebellions being built on hope anywhere), but Cassian just gives him a look and tells him that, “We’re going to help her.”

“ _We?_ ” he asks disbelievingly.

“I mean—you don’t have to come if you don’t want to K, but I’m going to find her some help anyway,” Cassian said, looking up at him.

“Obviously I’m coming with you,” he said, offended by Cassian thinking that he would leave him on his own, “Who else are you going to get to hack into an Imperial base?”

Cassian smiles and pats him on the arm, “Thanks K,” he said before walking off to gather some more rebels.

(It has been a long time since he has seen Cassian smile, so at the very least, he will help Jyn Erso for that.)

“I believe you could rival Darth Revan’s droid in some ways,” the monk comments, watching him (or listening?) kick a can desolately.

“Who?” he asks.

The monk beams, “Back in the days of the Old Republic, there was a Jedi by the name of—”

The walking armory puts a hand over the monk’s mouth and began to drag him away, “Once you get him started, he’s impossible to stop.”

He’s not sure how much he likes this rag-tag band of rogues they picked up, especially when he has to drag their inebriated carcasses to their quarters, but—

The monk and the walking armory burn with a conviction that is reflected in Cassian.

The jittery pilot defected on his own, and he can respect that after working with and going into so many Imperial bases filled with people just doing their jobs.

And Cassian is obviously fond of Jyn Erso, so they will do he supposes.

(And he spares a few miliseconds before critical failure to consider if they could have done better with a different group.

It seems unlikely, and he devotes the precious few miliseconds remaining to a scenario where Cassian emerges unscathed from Scarif and finds another looming chasis for him.

If he could smile, he thinks he would.)

The ninth time he wakes up after Cassian first freed him, it’s bizarre.

There is sun shining down on him, and his feet are crunching through sand. It seems like he is still on Scarif, but if Cassian had managed to survive and found something to back him up in, why is he on the beach?

“K!”

He turns around to see Cassian with a smile nearly splitting his face running towards him, waving, “You’re here!”

“Cassian, why are we still on Scarif?” he asked, kicking the sand and looking up at the sky (well, he didn’t see an extra moon, but he had no idea how fast a death star could move so that didn’t mean much)

“Well…” Cassian looked around uncomfortably before starting to wave again to someone behind him.

He turned around to see the monk and the walking armory making their way toward them, the monk waving happily back at them.

“Why are we _all_ still on Scarif?” he demanded, before he noticed Jyn and the pilot trailing behind the Guardian pair, “Oh no, we’re dead, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid so,” Cassian admitted, looking down.

“Did you guys at least get the plans out?” he demanded.

Jyn crossed her arms, “Yes.”

“Oh thank the Force,” Bodhi said, slumping down into the sand.

Chirrut smiled serenely, “All is as the Force wills it.”

“Including being a ghost apparently,” Baze snarked, throwing an arm around the monk, “Even in the after-life I’m stuck with you.”

“You missed my voice,” Chirrut said knowingly, leaning into the Baze.

“I missed you,” Baze said quietly, nosing into Chirrut’s short hair.

“Why am _I_ here?” K2 complained, kicking some sand at the couple.

“The Force is in all things,” Chirrut said with a wide smile.

(…well, he would say he disagrees just to be contrary, but it is nice to be reunited with everyone.)

“And your backup got destroyed when—well, you know,” Cassian pointed out, miming an explosion with his hands.

“So now what?” Jyn asked, looking around at the whole group.

“We could enjoy the tropical paradise while trying to figure out how to manifest in the real world?” Bodhi suggested, raising his hand.

They all turned to look at the pilot, and Bodhi shrugged, “Scarif was supposed to be the nicest of all of the Imperial bases?” he pointed out.

“I do like the idea,” Cassian said, turning to look at the long stretch of white sand and crystalline seas.

(Well, if it’s okay with Cassian, then it’s okay with him as well.

After all, how many droids get to retire into the Force?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! (And if you caught the reference to HK-47, I'm glad) Kudos/Comments very much appreciated!


End file.
